What you remember when you are slipping away is anyone's guess. But even when it comes on fast there is probably something:
Your bat slamming the rubber tee under the baseball, the voices of your mom and dad mixed in with all the happy cheering back behind you somewhere, the sound of your small heart thumping so hard down inside of your bony chest, hot dog smell, a bird flying over centerfield, the ball rolling slowly across the bright green grass three feet in front of you, the interrupted baseline disappearing beneath your sneaks as you chug as hard as you can towards the five or six kids in Dodger blue all gathered around first base looking lost and desperate and confused and excited and trying to get you 'out' but not all that worried about it in the end.
The clumpy snow on your sled blades falling away as you brush it with your wet glove.
Santa Claus in the sky/he's really a plane/you will never ever know that.
Your mother's warm oniony breath as she situates you upon your pillow at the end of a long good day.
The chlorine in your eyes. The sting of happiness.
Your tiny brother in the doorway holding Winnie the Pooh.
Mint. Toothpaste. Burning life.